


Blood on my Name

by JasperIsAFanboy



Series: Werewolves of Dunwall [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6485680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperIsAFanboy/pseuds/JasperIsAFanboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teague had not long been in Dunwall when the first reports began coming in of a strange, massive beast lurking in the Flooded District. The beast was said to resemble a hound, but larger, more heavily built, with thick reddish-brown, black, and grey fur. Sometimes it was claimed to walk on all fours, others on two legs like a man. It was fast, vicious, and quick to kill; the few witnesses that survived seeing it were often so traumatised as to render their testimony useless. It was only seen during full moons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on my Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written last Halloween for carvedwhalebones over on Tumblr after they asked about werewolf!Daud fics. This was riotously fun to write, and I've actually written a slashier sequel that I'll post soon. This particular one didn't turn out as slashy as I'd wanted, but there's a mention of Daud/Martin (bc I will go down with that ship). 'Ware blood, corpses, and animal attacks, but if you've played the game, I dare say there's nothing herein you can't handle. Also posted over on my jasperisafanboy Tumblr blog. The title refers to the song of the same name by The Brothers Bright.

Teague had not long been in Dunwall when the first reports began coming in of a strange, massive beast lurking in the Flooded District. The beast was said to resemble a hound, but larger, more heavily built, with thick reddish-brown, black, and grey fur. Sometimes it was claimed to walk on all fours, others on two legs like a man. It was fast, vicious, and quick to kill; the few witnesses that survived seeing it were often so traumatised as to render their testimony useless. It was only seen during full moons.

The Abbey at first blew the reports off. No doubt, believed the High Overseer, the reports were the result of drunkards stumbling into the abandoned district, seeing a hound or a similar animal, and thinking they saw something else entirely. The only Overseer to take the reports seriously was a man who spent more time reading old legends and stories, studying the tales of heretics, than he did in the city, and his fervent warnings went unheeded. As more and more reports of the beast came in, the Abbey continued to ignore it; it was to all appearances a mundane, if unusual, animal, and therefore the City Watch could handle it. It was nothing to do with the Abbey or the Outsider.

(Teague rather disagreed with this notion; the beast stirred vague memories of tales told to him in childhood by his parents, tales of wolves that became men and men that became wolves, called werewolves, held under the sway of the moon. There were no more wolves in either Gristol or Morley, of course; humans had wiped them out, desirous of eliminating the competition. But the stories remained and lost none of their potency. If the beast was anything like the stories said, it was a job for the Abbey indeed; was not their purpose to protect the citizens of the empire from supernatural threats? While werewolves may not have been linked to the Outsider, surely they still had to be handled by the Abbey.)

And then the Watch dispatched a squad to the Flooded District. They entered the district the night of a full moon, rounded a corner, and apparently vanished. Two days passed with absolutely no word from any of the six men sent into the crumbling buildings, but a beggar, who was hiding from a rainy night in one of the buildings on the fringe of the district, came forward to claim she’d heard a howl that night from deeper in the district. The morning of the third day, one of the men from the squad stumbled into Holger Square. His uniform was in tatters, he was bruised and battered like he’d come from a warzone, and he wore such an expression of terror that it was a wonder he didn’t die of shock when an Overseer approached him. He was taken back to the Watch, who treated his wounds and cleaned him up.

In the process, they discovered that a massive chunk had been bitten from his left calf, as if by a hound. At first the Abbey was blamed. The bite radius was too big, however, even for the largest of the Abbey’s hounds. The man was delirious, feverish, for several days, and could not be questioned. He did, however, occasionally mumble in his sleep about whatever he’d seen in the Flooded District:

“Wolf… no, stop… mark… the mark…Outsider’s eyes!”

At this point, the Abbey’s leadership felt finally that they had to step in. They decided to send an Overseer to talk to the guardsman when he regained coherency, and they asked for volunteers. Teague, still eager to prove his devotion to the Abbey and its tenets, was the first to come forward, and the task was given to him. A few days later, the man was finally well enough to be questioned, and Teague set off immediately.

He found the man in the barracks of the Watch’s headquarters, sitting up in bed. Geoff Curnow, at the time a mere lieutenant, was standing at his bedside talking to him. He looked up at Teague’s approach, as did the bedridden man.

“Overseer Teague Martin,” Teague said as he approached. “I’ve been sent to question this man, if he’s able.”

“He is,” the man grunted, pushing himself more upright. “David Goodman, officer of the City Watch. Didn’t expect the Abbey to come to this.”

“You talked in your sleep, sir, and mentioned a mark. The Outsider marks his chosen, and we must stamp out heresy whenever we can.” Teague linked his hands behind his back. “Tell me, what did you see in Rudshore?”

Goodman sighed and leaned back. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted. “We walked in, got a few blocks into the district, when we heard something following us. Scuffling. We thought it was rats at first, so we ignored it, but then we turned a corner and found ourselves on a street open to the moonlight. At the end was… this… animal. Some kind of… it looked. Well. It looked like the reports say: a big, hound-like animal on all fours. If the wolves of Gristol weren’t all gone, I’d say it was a wolf. Bloody huge thing, looked as big as a blood-ox. But then it stood up like the Tyvian ice bears, and it howled.”

He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment in evident pain at the memory. “That howl,” he half-whispered. “I’ve never heard its like, and by the Void, I hope never to hear it again. Chilled me to the bone, it did. And we heard more howls around us, all around us. Alleys, buildings, everywhere. It was like the whole district was howling.” Goodman turned his haunted gaze to Teague. “And then they came.”

“’They’?”

“More animals like the first, but not quite as big. That one was absolutely massive. I never saw it up close, but from where I was…” Goodman looked Teague up and down for a moment. “I’d say it… would almost have reached your chest, Overseer. Just below your shoulders. On its hind legs, it was probably taller than you.”

Teague frowned behind his bronze mask. If Goodman spoke truly… Teague was just over six feet tall. If it really reached his chest, it would put the animal at nearly five feet tall without standing upright. “What happened next?”

“They rushed us. Had to have been twenty or thirty of the big bastards. We fired on them, but there were too many. They took us down. The other five were killed. I managed to get away, but not before one of them took a chunk out of my leg. I don’t know how I escaped. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Can I have a word with you, Overseer Martin?” Curnow asked.

“Certainly.” Teague looked down at Goodman. “I may have further questions for you, depending on what my superiors say.”

Goodman shrugged. “I’ll be here, probably. Can’t walk with half my calf gone,” he said. “I’m told I’ll probably lose the leg.”

Curnow clapped a comradely hand on Goodman’s shoulder, and then gestured to Teague. He led the way out of the room and into the hallway.

“What do you think of his story, Overseer?” Curnow asked, keeping his voice low.

“There’s nothing overtly heretical in it, I admit,” Teague said, crossing his arms. “But… wolves? There are no wolves in Gristol, let alone Dunwall and the Flooded District. It’s preposterous.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but then what did he see? Is it possible that there’s a pack of wolves living in Rudshore?” Curnow shook his head. “It sounds impossible, I know.”

“Because it probably is.” Teague frowned again. “There’s no denying he saw something. But I can’t fathom what. Could he perhaps be building it up in his head from terror?”

“I know Goodman. He’s, well, a good man. He’s not very imaginative, either, which is unfortunate for his career. But the point is, I don’t think he’s the suggestible type.”

Teague made a considering noise and looked back at the door to the barracks. After a moment or two, he said, “Let me know if he comes up with anything more. A message to the Abbey will find me.”

Curnow nodded, and Teague left. As he walked back to the Abbey, he thought long and hard about Goodman’s story. How much was truth, and how much was recollection muddied by pain and fear? It sounded so patently unbelievable. If only the rest of the squad hadn’t been killed. Another story, memories from another mind, might have been quite useful. Teague looked up at the sky. Sunset had begun to paint it in fantastic colours, copper and gold and crimson, the shadows of the surrounding buildings stretching long and blue over the street. The moon was no longer full, but in twenty-three days, it would be again. Would more reports of the mysterious beast arrive?

Teague resolved to do some research of his own into werewolves. He knew Gristol had stories similar to the ones told in Morley; perhaps Tyvia and Serkonos had their own legends. He didn’t think whatever was lurking in the Flooded District was really a werewolf, but the similarities were striking.

The twenty-three days rolled by with no further word from Curnow or Goodman, nor did anyone come forward claiming to see the beast. Teague’s research bore little fruit; the Serkonan werewolf legendry was similar to the Gristolian and Morlish legendry, though the name was different: lupo mannero, or “wolf man.” Tyvia had two stories; in one, a man was said to have angered the Outsider, who turned him into a wolf and cursed him to wander forever. In the other, it was said that if one stabbed a copper knife into a tree and spoke a certain prayer, the spirits would grant the ability to transform into a wolf. Teague wasn’t sure if any of these stories had any bearing on whatever was lurking in the Flooded District.

It did occur to him, however, that perhaps the mysterious Whalers were somehow involved.

It was known that they inhabited the Flooded District and knew its byways better than anyone in Dunwall. The gang of assassins might be using ordinary animals to hide their activities. But what were the animals, and where had they come from? Had the Whalers corrupted wolfhounds somehow? They’d taken wolfhounds from the Abbey and the Overseers before, and they were known heretics. Could they have altered the wolfhounds with black magic? Teague wished they had a Whaler in captivity to interrogate, but when questioned they were notorious for committing suicide via poisoned needles hidden in their gloves. Whatever coated those needles was quick and potent, offering the Overseers no chance to administer a counteragent.

It was soon clear that Teague would not find answers amongst the Abbey’s records, especially when the moon was far from full. So he resolved to wait.

His waiting was not unrewarded.

The morning after the next full moon, Curnow sent a message to him, asking him to come to City Watch headquarters. He set off at once, and found Curnow pacing the barracks. Goodman’s bed was empty.

“He’s gone,” Curnow said shortly as soon as he saw Teague. “Goodman’s vanished.”

“I thought he said he couldn’t walk.”

“He couldn’t, damn it! He had his leg amputated last week, even! The wound was going bad, there was nothing else to be done. And yet somehow, he left the barracks. We haven’t seen hide or hair of him.” Curnow raked a hand through his hair and huffed an aggrieved sigh. “And to make matters worse, someone over on Drapers Ward reported an animal attack—“

“An animal attack?” Teague’s gaze fixed hard on Curnow. All of his research came to the fore of his mind. “What happened, exactly? Tell me.”

Curnow looked at him in some surprise. “Why the interest? Do you think the beast from Rudshore has moved out into the city?”

“Just tell me what happened.”

Curnow stared at him for a moment. “I can do you one better,” he finally said. “Come with me. I hope you have a strong stomach.”

Curnow led the way out of the barracks and through the building, down to the basement corridor. Most of the rooms were for storage, and Curnow passed these without a second glance. He stopped at the last door and pushed it open. It was a morgue, Teague saw, three steel tables sitting against the far wall. Two of them were occupied, the cadavers covered with sheets.

“Twin brothers,” Curnow said as they approached the bodies. “They were found early this morning by a shopkeeper. I won’t show you the one, he’s in pieces and we’re still not sure we’ve recovered them all. The other, though…” Curnow took hold of the sheet and, with one last glance at Teague, flicked it away.

Teague looked over the corpse dispassionately. It was hardly the first corpse he’d seen, and it wasn’t even the worst. He’d seen bodies in ditches left to decay in the sun, torsos bloated and burst from their own internal gases, crawling with vermin. He’d seen men who’d died of wounds gone rotten. He’d seen a man who’d died trying to hold his own intestines in, his entrails tangled around his fingers.

But still, what he was looking at now was unlike anything he’d seen before. The dead man’s throat had been torn out, leaving a bloody red ruin behind, his shoulders adorned with ragged claw marks in groups of four and five. As with Goodman’s leg, the bite radius was enormous, bigger than an average hound. The man had died with a look of sheer terror on his face. 

“Wounds on the other corpse are similar,” Curnow said quietly. He looked at Teague. “What do you think, Overseer Martin?”

“I think the beast of Rudshore needs to be dealt with before the next full moon, and I think Officer Goodman needs to be found as soon as possible,” Teague said. “The moon is not full, but very close to it tonight. There’s a chance we may see the beasts. Get every able-bodied man you can on the streets today, find Goodman. If you do find him, restrain him.”

“The man’s missing a leg, I don’t think—“

“Lieutenant Curnow.” Teague turned to him. “This is not a mundane problem. Do as I say. Find Goodman. Restrain him. If you don’t think the Watch is up to the task of keeping him captive, hand him over to the Abbey. We can handle him.”

Teague didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and left the morgue, mind whirling. He had to go into the Flooded District. He doubted anyone else would accept that werewolves were loose in Dunwall. Well, the other Overseer he’d seen hunting through the records might, but he was ill-suited to field work, no one ever saw him outside the records room. Probably hadn’t wielded a blade in years. No, Teague was likely to be on his own for this one. He’d broached the subject, cautiously, to other Overseers, and had been met with scepticism at best and disdain at worst. While heresy was accepted as fact, werewolfism, except as a physical or mental disorder, was not.

The rest of the day, Teague prepared to hunt werewolves. The legends claimed that a werewolf could be dispatched by many methods similar to humans; there was no specific, sure-fire method beyond getting silver into their heart. So he found a gunsmith who could make him silver rounds before nightfall. He also treated his sword with wolfsbane oil, said to repel werewolves, and even loaded a syringe with quicksilver. He hoped if he was close enough to the werewolf to use the quicksilver, that the beast would be unconscious. He didn’t fancy his chances of getting to use it otherwise. By sunset, he was as ready as he’d ever be. He received no word from Curnow that Goodman had been apprehended.

He left for the Flooded District.

He’d visited Rudshore only a few times before. He hadn’t had reason to before the waters rose, and he’d hadn’t had reason after. It was hard to reach now, only accessible on foot. He stood at the edge of the district, peering down a street to the waters at the far end. How was he going to navigate the place? There was water everywhere, and while some of it was shallow enough the wade through, some of it would be over even his head. Perhaps he’d be able to find a way through the buildings? But if the werewolf was in them too, he might be walking into a trap, especially if the werewolf knew the building better.

He sighed and started walking into the District. Standing around staring into the place wasn’t going to get anything done.

Teague’s footsteps were loud on the street, echoing off the broken facades of the abandoned buildings around him. He wished his boots had softer soles; he felt like he was announcing his presence to the entire district. He drew his sword and held it at the ready as he walked. The district was eerie, dead silent but for the sounds of water and crumbling masonry. Occasionally something would give way and fall with a quiet clatter, each time making Teague jump and look around. If there was anyone, anything, around, Teague didn’t see them. The shadows lay thick like spilled whale oil in the corners of the buildings, utterly impenetrable, like solid masses. The moonlight was bright and cold and failed to pierce the gloom.

The street sank into water, and Teague stopped at its edge. To his left and right were two alleys, both dark as pitch, and he peered down both in turn. He started down the left, but heard the tell-tale clicking of river krusts. He froze and slowly backed up. He had brought standard-issue grenades with him, but he didn’t want to use them unless he absolutely had to for fear of alerting the werewolf (or werewolves) to his presence any more than he probably already had. He left the alley, turned, and went down the other. It was narrow, but he heard nothing more than a few rats scurrying against the walls, their fur rasping against the brick.

The alley ended in a cul-de-sac, a dead end. Teague sighed and stood in the centre for a moment, trying to figure out just what to do. It was possible he’d have to leave the district and come back in the morning, just to map the place out. He might run into the Whalers, but at least he wouldn’t run into a werewolf. It really hadn’t been his best idea to come gallivanting in here all on his own, the scepticism of the others aside. He should have at least tried to convince a few others that there was a clear danger in the Flooded District, werewolf or not. He decided to leave and come back with others. He turned to head back down the alley and froze.

Standing at the mouth of the alley, fur frosted bright silver by the moon, was the werewolf.

Goodman had not been exaggerating. The beast was enormous, a solid wall of fur and muscle. It was bigger than even the largest wolfhounds. Its forepaws looked to be the size of Teague’s face, oddly like human hands. It slowly stalked forward, muscle shifting smooth under its pelt. Teague held his ground, lifting his sword and holding it across his body. The wolf paused, and continued its inexorable march forward. Teague could see a long scar crossing its right eye.

The scar made him think of a man he’d met and taken into an alley during the last Fugue Feast. That man, too, had had a scar over his right eye, and many more besides. He’d tasted like Cullero cigars and whiskey, and underneath that a faint coppery tang like blood. Teague had never found out his name, nor given his own, but he still thought sometimes of him; he’d been a hard and passionate lover, and the predatory power in his body had given the encounter a thrill he’d not experienced before or since. Teague’s back had been scraped raw from the brick of the wall he’d been fucked against.

Teague pushed his memories back and drew his pistol. The werewolf’s lips drew back in a snarl, baring long, vicious white teeth, sharp like daggers, and it gave a growl that raised the hair on the back of Teague’s neck. Teague cocked his pistol. The werewolf’s ears went back in response and it reared onto its hind legs.

“Outsider’s eyes…!” Teague burst out. Standing, the beast towered over him, easily ten feet tall. He could now see that its back paws were not like hound paws; they were almost like feet, nearly flat on the ground like a human’s. Its forelimbs hung like bear limbs, its hand-like paws tipped with hooked claws. Standing like that, the beast was more like a bear than a wolf, though its head was clearly canine. It growled again, a low rumble like an engine, and then threw back its head and howled.

The sound reverberated over the buildings, a chilling sound that sent shudders and cold sweat coursing down Teague’s back. There was something inescapably primal about it, as though the sound called back to man’s dawn, when he was at the mercy of the world around him with only a weak fire and his own will to keep the monsters at bay.

Well, Teague didn’t have fire, but he had will in spades. He bared his own teeth, which felt pitiful in comparison to the werewolf’s, and let out a growl of his own. He lowered his head as he’d seen hounds do right before they attacked and held his sword and pistol at the ready. He might be just a man, but he wasn’t going to back down before a mere animal. He wouldn’t show his throat.

The werewolf snarled and dropped back to all fours before charging forward like an ox. Teague slashed out with his sword, catching the beast across one limb, making it yip and dodge to one side. It swiped at his head, and Teague drew back just in time to avoid the worst of the blow; it might have taken his head off otherwise. As it was, the claws raked over his cheek, laying it open almost to the bone. He cried out and fell. The pistol fell from his grasp and fired into the shadows.

Amazingly, there came a yelp in response; Teague now saw that more wolves had arrived. Evidently the bullet had hit one of them. The werewolf attacking him sprang towards him, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Teague rolled to his left as the wolf thudded to the ground where he’d lain only moments before. It was between him and the gun. Teague glanced at it, hoping he could get around the wolf. As if it read his mind, the wolf kicked the gun into the shadows as several more werewolves stepped into the light. As Goodman had said, they weren’t as big as the first, but they were still bigger than an average hound. He briefly spotted some sort of mark on the first wolf’s left paw, shining in the moonlight like an old scar cutting through the fur, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

Teague got to his feet, spinning slowly to keep his eyes on the wolves now coming out of the other shadows, their eyes gleaming like lamps. He could feel blood pouring down his cheek from the rents in his face. He was completely surrounded.

Jaws closed right behind him with a sound like a trap snapping shut, and Teague jumped and whirled. He lashed out with the blade, catching the werewolf in the throat and opening it wide. The wolf gurgled and coughed and fell, twitching, and the other wolves let out a chorus of yips and howls. The big wolf barrelled into him and knocked him down, knocking the wind from his lungs. Teague reversed his grip on his sword and stabbed back, wheezing and gasping, and a pained growl from the wolf told him he’d struck true. He felt the wolf’s immense weight leave his back, and he again rolled upright as he tried to catch his breath.

He’d stabbed the wolf in one forelimb, he saw; it was favouring its left foreleg. Blood dripped through its fur. A couple of the other wolves came forward, growling, but the big werewolf snarled and snapped at them. They froze and dropped to their bellies before backing away. It growled at them once more, and then turned back to Teague, who’d finally regained his breath.

It reared onto its back legs again, and Teague wished he had the gun. He had a perfect shot. He shifted his grip on the sword and bared his teeth again.

“Come on, boyo,” he snarled. “I’ll show you not to fuck with a son of Morley!”

The werewolf growled at him again and rushed him. It moved far more quickly than he expected, and he only barely got his sword up in time to catch it across one paw. It didn’t stop it, however, and the beast bore him down again, knocking the sword from his hand. Teague tried to fend it off, got his forearm up against the wolf’s throat. It snapped at him, jaws closing with incredible force, its hot breath gusting over Teague’s face. Its breath stank of blood and meat. Its claws scrabbled at his shoulders, rending his clothing and shredding the skin beneath. Teague did his best to bite back his noises of pain, suspecting it would only drive the wolf to greater heights of bloodlust.

The wolf’s claws raked down the arm he was using to try to hold it off, digging deep, and this time he cried out in pain. His arm slid back, and the wolf snarled and buried its teeth in Teague’s shoulder. He screamed, blood spurting high as his collarbone snapped beneath the wolf’s jaws. The world spun and turned grey and black at the edges as pain radiated through his body from the bite.

A gunshot shattered the air, and the wolf yipped. Teague felt hot blood spatter his face, dripping into the wounds and burning like acid. Men shouted, more guns fired, as the sound of running footsteps reached Teague’s ears. The wolf sprang off of him, and the sound of paws on the street signalled its retreat.

The world spun around Teague, pain moving through him in sickening waves, as he lay panting roughly on the ground, clinging to consciousness by his fingernails. The moon and stars above him whirled and danced.

He heard someone calling his name, tried to respond but only managed a hoarse groan. The world darkened as he felt hands on his shoulders, sending fresh pain through his body. He groaned, and slipped away from the world.

For the next several days, he drifted in and out of consciousness, in and out of dreams of blood, pain, of running and running through a forest. And then he slipped into a complete blackness, a merciful unawareness.

He came to at the sound of a roll of thunder, lying on his bunk in the Abbey’s dormitory. He groaned softly, his eyes closing briefly as consciousness brought with it pain.

“Welcome back. You’ve been out for five days.”

Teague’s cracked his eyes open and turned his head to find Curnow sitting on a wooden chair.

Teague croaked, “What…” His voice cracked and broke. Curnow reached down and picked up a glass of water, held it up so Teague could take a sip. Teague cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”

“I tried to send word to you here, but I was told you’d already left,” Curnow said, sitting back. “We found Goodman, he was hiding in some dump over by Bottle Street, babbling about wolves. He died when we tried to take him in. When I couldn’t get word to you, I figured you’d gone to the Flooded District on your own. So I took a squad and went after you. Good thing I did, since that wolf was about to tear your throat out.”

“Did you kill it?” Teague rasped.

“No. We tried to hunt it down, but that place…” Curnow shook his head. “That place is a maze. We wouldn’t be able to find our own heads if they weren’t attached to our shoulders. We were lucky we found you. Your shoulders are shredded. That bite on your shoulder?” Curnow pointed to the crook of his neck. “Nearly got your carotid. You could have bled out in that alley. Almost did, given all those wounds. We did kill one, but not that big bastard we found on top of you. It escaped.”

Teague sighed, let his head sag back against the pillow. “So it’s still out there.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

Teague looked towards the rain-streaked windows near the ceiling. Storm clouds covered the sky, their black bellies illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. They broke briefly, and for that one moment, the moon was visible, bright white against the sky. It was waning.

There were three weeks until the next full moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel coming sometime today, if not tomorrow. Also, the unfortunate David Goodman's name is a reference to Jack Goodman and David Kessler from "An American Werewolf in London," which is my go-to werewolf movie and I recommend it above all others.


End file.
